and i don't care who sees
by alouetta
Summary: Finn finds out about Kurt and Sam, though it takes him long enough. Originally written for the Kummer Summer.


I.

"Left foot. _Left_ foot – towards me – and step – step –"

"It's the air conditioning, it's –"

"– step –"

"– putting me off –"

"And how – step – is it doing that? Step –"

"It's _whirr_ing – I can't hear –"

"– step –"

"– the beat, it's putting me –"

"– step –"

"– off." His foot hit the ground harder than he'd meant it to. "Off the beat. Uh."

"The air conditioning is putting you off."

"Yeah," said Sam, who was reluctant to admit that it was in fact not the air conditioning putting him off but the way Kurt was looking at him from across the piano, his hand over his smile, his sleeve just slipped from his wrist. There was a window propped open at the back of the choir room and in the thick end-of-summer stuffiness outside there was no breeze coming in. The air conditioning whirred on. "I mean – yeah. It's kinda loud. So."

"I suppose now would be an appropriate time to admit I took the liberty of preparing a playlist for this session," said Kurt. The music cut off into abrupt silence. He was spinning the wheel on his iPod dock. "It's composed entirely of songs I think you'll find a little better suited to both your temperament and musical tastes."

"Really?"

"Mm-hm." He stepped away from the piano; the first blast of trumpets from something Sam was sure he recognised burst from the speakers.

"_So crazy right now_ – _most incredibly_ –"

"Is this – Beyonce?" said Sam, but the way Kurt's carefully indifferent expression had disintegrated into a smile that was almost mischievous was the only answer he needed. "Wait, don't you need, like, a _booty_ to dance to –"

"Hands up!" – he was already keeping time, his hands above his head, tapping out the rapid beat with one white Doc Marten – "hands up! I heard about the Bieber Experience, I know you can do hips – on three – one, two – _three_ –"

"–_I'm touchin you more and more every time_ –"

"Uh –"

"Sam, you have to re_lax_ –"

There was no polite way to explain to Kurt how difficult it was to relax when he was standing right in front of him demonstrating the correct way to perform a booty shake.

"– arms up – higher – right, right! – now we're going to do a turn in a moment, wait for it, wait for it –"

"–_how your love can do what no one else can_ –"

"– and jump – exactly – now keep keeping time – _hip_ thrust _hip_ thrust – that's _it_ –"

"Guys?"

"–_got me lookin so crazy right now_ –"

"Uh, you guys?

"–_your love's got me lookin so crazy right now_ –"

"Kurt!" Finn shouted, and Kurt spun away from Sam towards the door, pink-cheeked and breathless, one hand already going to smooth his hair. Sam had frantically run through a hundred excuses and explanations and mitigating circumstances before he remembered exactly nothing that might need an excuse had even happened, and he sat down, suddenly, on the piano stool. "Either of you guys seen Rachel?"

"We haven't left the choir room all lunch break."

" – _your kiss got me hopin you save me right now_ –"

"Right." Finn stayed in the doorway, patting his pockets in an absent-minded sort of way. "So – you guys are dancing?"

"Rehearsing," Kurt corrected.

"It's good."

"Naturally."

"Kind of a – like, it's a pretty hot song to be dancing to, isn't it?"

"The lyrical content is irrelevant," said Kurt, "we chose it based on the rhythm."

"–_it's the beat that my heart skips when I'm with you_ –"

Finn nodded. He was looking round the choir room like he was revisiting it after ten years away and he didn't seem in any hurry to leave. "It's catchy," he offered, after a moment, and nodded again. "Uh, look – if you guys _do_ see Rachel, don't tell her, but I'm kinda – I was kinda meant to be eating vegan this week, and I kinda just ate a ham sandwich. So."

"So," echoed Kurt. He was still tapping a hand to the beat.

"Guess I'll be going," said Finn.

"We won't tell her you were here," said Kurt. "Will we?"

All it took for another flush of embarrassment to hit Sam was that one backwards glance, and at once he was embarrassed that he was embarrassed at all. "We – uh, no, no, I won't – we won't –"

"We won't," Kurt clarified.

"–_y'all know when the flow is loco_ –"

"Right. Cool. Thanks." Finn looked between them, but Kurt's expression of polite interest was firmly back in place and Sam was concentrating intently on his shoelaces, tucked back behind the tongues of his trainers. "Well," he said, "you guys have fun."

"I'll make it a priority," said Kurt.

The door shut quietly behind Finn. The music was still blaring.

"–_you got me sprung and I don't care who sees cos baby_ –"

"I guess it is _kind_ of a sexual song," said Sam, trying to project the tone of a person who, while not concerned himself, would be entirely sympathetic if the other person preferred to go back to the considerably less sexual ways of the Jonas Brothers.

"I sincerely hope that's not a problem for you," said Kurt, and smiled a sudden, alarmingly impish smile, "we have an entire playlist of these things to get through before next period."

* * *

><p>II.<p>

"Kurt, I chopped it –"

"Let me have a look – no, you have to slice it _much_ more finely than that, it'll taste completely overpowering if you put in such great big lumps –"

"What, like –" Finn squinted in concentration and took another go.

"_No_ no no, nothing like that – look, go and watch the stove, Finn, make sure the pan doesn't boil over, I'll do this – Sam, would you take a look at the lamb, it should be browning –"

"It's _kin_da brown – kinda red too, though –"

"Red-brown, exactly, perfect –"

The chime of the doorbell cut through Kurt's bubble and he froze for a moment, in the centre of the kitchen, a knife in one hand and a pepper grinder in the other, his eyes wide and blue and panicked and his cheeks flushed in the hot air from the oven. "You said they weren't coming home till seven. Finn, you _said_ they wouldn't come home till _sev_en."

"That's what Mom said, she said the film finished at half six, so –"

"I'm going to have to go and keep them away. They can't come in," said Kurt, in a voice that might have sounded entirely rational if he hadn't looked so frantic. "I'll go and tell them to come back later. Don't move. Unless something catches fire in which case you have my full permission to move as far as you need to dial nine-one-one. OK. OK. One moment. Oh God, Finn, you said they were coming back at _sev_en –"

With the whirl of an apron he was gone. Finn was standing at the stove with a wooden spoon, stirring the pan Kurt had given him temporary custody of. Sam was sitting at the table with a bowl and a knife and a pile of string beans that needed trimming. There were voices in the hall and though they were trying to pretend neither of them was listening, Finn's stirring had slowed and Sam had stopped chopping entirely.

"– sur_prise_ –"

"– just thought I'd drop by –"

"– well, it's not what I would call exactly ideal timing –"

"– is something cooking?" and then there was Blaine in the doorway, beaming in at them, hair windswept and curling up from its tightly slicked-back style, a scarf wound around his neck despite the May sun. "Finn, Sam – what a surprise!"

"Hi," said Finn, and added, "Long time no see."

"Hey," said Sam. Kurt was there behind Blaine and Sam didn't really feel like paying the guy any more attention than he had to.

"What're you guys making?" He was unwinding his scarf, unbuttoning his cardigan; he pulled out the seat at the table next to Sam. Kurt replied distractedly in French. He was glancing between his boyfriend and his oven in apparent frustration.

"I've heard of that," said Blaine, and nodded over at Finn. "Kind of a lot of work, isn't it? For a school night?"

"Uh, well – me and Kurt don't mind," Finn said, glancing at Kurt for confirmation. "Our mom and dad've done a lot of stuff for us in the past, so. And Sam's helping."

"Chopping beans," Blaine said cheerily.

"Yeah," said Sam.

"Well, I just think it's a bit much. That's all. It's only six months, isn't it, it's not a –" he waved a hand, "–_big_ anniversary."

Kurt was tapping over and over on the worksurface with the blade of his knife. "Blaine, with all due respect, Finn and I have been planning this for several weeks, and I'm entirely capable of cooking a moderately complex meal on a school night."

"No no, you go ahead, Kurt, I know what you're like." He looked laughingly round at Sam like he expected agreement but Sam kept on chopping string beans. "You and all your big plans."

"Sam – Finn –" Kurt's smile was strained, his posture seemed tighter, tenser, than usual, "– would you mind just giving us a moment alone?"

"Sure, sure –"

His voice was raised before the door was even shut behind them.

"I can't stand that guy," Sam whispered.

"Wait, shush a second –" Finn was frowning in concentration, his ear pressed against the hinge of the door. "Listen, I think they're talking about us."

"– you trust Finn's judgement?"

"Yes, and Sam liked it too."

"You trust Sam's judgement? I'm sure they're great guys, Kurt, no offence, but what do they know about cooking?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I just think it's a bit much. A bit over the top. That's all I'm saying."

There was the dull thud thud thud of someone ferociously slicing onto the chopping board. Finn was wincing with every beat; he caught Sam's eye and made one sharp throat-slashing gesture.

"Your dad's a down-home kind of guy, isn't he? Isn't he going to find all this a bit – fancy?"

"I didn't realise you felt better placed to judge my father's tastes than his own son."

"Kurt, I'm just _say_ing. Why're you getting so defensive?"

"Does it seem like an unjustified reaction to you?"

"I'm sensing some bitterness – is this about something else?"

"I'm going to let Finn and Sam back in in a moment. And this meal is so big and fancy and over the top I don't know if we're really going to be able to _con_centrate on it with you still here."

"Are you telling me to leave?"

"Of course not. I'm asking politely if you'd consider leaving as I can't think of any good reason for you not to."

There was the sound of a chair scraping back across the kitchen tiles and Finn and Sam jumped back from the door with a sudden intense need to look completely unaware of any kitchen drama. When Blaine walked out moments later Finn shouted a goodbye after him, but he didn't reply.

"Kurt, that smells _awe_some," Sam said, as loudly as he felt he could without sounding strange, and glanced back down the hallway. The front door slammed.

"Your dad _will_ like it," said Finn, but he didn't sound as certain as he had before.

"Anyone who didn't like something you'd cooked would have to have something wrong with them," said Sam.

"Is that a fact?" said Kurt.

"Definitely. It's in textbooks and everything," said Sam, and Kurt smiled at him, suddenly, brightly, and touched his arm in thanks.

* * *

><p>III.<p>

The water was hot and the shampoo was in his eyes and the cool tiled floor was uncomfortable to kneel on for the length of a basic fringe trim let alone the length of the full deep conditioning Kurt considered a prerequisite for anyone intending to maintain a serious relationship with him, but Kurt's hands were in his hair, pressing softly on his scalp, keeping contact for the sake of contact, and there was nothing he'd rather spend his Sunday evenings doing.

Apart from the hiss of the water against the porcelain bathtub it was quiet; it was difficult to hold a conversation when soap ran into your mouth every time you opened it. Sam kept his eyes shut and his mouth shut, and his head bent over his folded arms on the rim of the bath. There wasn't anything else that mattered when he could feel Kurt's touch. Everything that mattered was there in that touch.

"You guys, Kurt – Kurt, don't panic, OK –" the words sounded gargled and distant under the noise of the shower, "– you know how you told me to tell you if your dad took anything out the left side of the fridge and I kinda just saw him with a slice of processed cheese, so –"

The water shut abruptly off and the pressure of Kurt's hands left his head. "Oh my God, I have _told_ him, if he thinks he can send himself hurtling to a premature grave and have it somehow escape my attention he is labouring under a _ser_ious misapprehension –"

Sam had barely raised his head before Kurt was shoving it back down.

"Just because my father insists on ruining his arteries doesn't mean you have permission to destroy your hair as well. You're staying there. Finn, make sure Sam stays there."

"Sure," said Finn, who didn't sound it, "uh, sure – Burt's in the den, by the way. If you're gonna go and shout at him or whatever."

Sam rested his head on his arms again, and listened to Kurt's footsteps hammering down the stairs. There were suds dripping into his eyes. The water trickling down his bare back was starting to feel cold in the air.

"I'm not _rea_lly gonna make you stay there," Finn said, after a moment.

"It's cool." Sam spat out a mouthful of bubbles. "Kurt told me to, so."

"Well, it's not like I'm not gonna tell Kurt you moved. If you do."

"Dude, seriously, if Kurt found out he'd probably kill me. He'd make me eat a block of butter. This is safer."

A muffled shout reached them from downstairs. "Dad, I know what you're doing, whatever you're holding I want you to put it down right now –"

The chair by the sink scraped back. "It's cool, you know. You two."

"Hm?"

"I mean it's really good how close you and Kurt are."

"I like him," said Sam, and he thought about the feel of hands in his hair.

"I'm not saying you're, like, getting it _on_ or anything," Finn added, hurriedly, and so inaccurately that Sam stopped thinking about the feel of hands in his hair and started thinking in wonder of the possibility that what if, maybe, just maybe, Finn hadn't actually _realised_. "Just, y'know, there's not a lot of guys who'd be okay with. You know. Kurt touching them. Like that."

Sam imagined this kind of conversation was a lot easier to have when you were looking at the bottom of a bathtub rather than the face of the person you were talking to, so he didn't look up. "Like what?"

"Like." The chair creaked. Finn seemed to be having difficulties pinning down what exactly it was that made the way Kurt touched Sam different to the way Kurt touched any other guy. "Like Kurt kinda looked like he was getting pretty into it," he said eventually, slowly. "What was he, like, giving you a massage or something?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I think so. It feels good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You should totally ask him to show you one time, it relaxes your head like you can't even think any more. It's awesome."

"Cool," said Finn. There were footsteps on the stairs again. "Look, if I can say this without sounding gay for you, I just think you're good for him. OK?"

"It wasn't cheese, Finn, it was a slice of polenta, and though I'm at a loss as to how you could have confused two so very different foods I'm grateful you warned me." The shower clicked back on. A hand cupped gently round the back of his neck. "And now if you wouldn't mind leaving, Sam and I have an entire evening left to spend together."

Hot water and soap suds were already running down the sides of his head and his eyes and mouth were shut tight again against the sting, but Finn's voice came through, indistinct and blurred: "I wish me and Puck were as close as you guys."

* * *

><p>IV.<p>

"No, but seriously, think about it. Like Daphne, sure, she's got it all out there, the legs, that – that little dress thing, whatever, but Velma? She's in a sweater. And you don't know what she's got going _on_ under that sweater. And that's _hot_."

"Dude, this is telling me way more about your relationship with Berry than you realise." Puck slammed his locker and turned to Finn. "Not saying your kinks are weird, but I just ate."

"We don't have _kinks_ –" Finn protested, but a violent burst of static crackled through the PA system and it became suddenly difficult to hear anything other than Coach Sylvester's tinny, amplified voice.

"Finn Hudson, I have a bone to pick with you. If you're not in my office in under thirty seconds then I plan to break into your home, remove your shoes, and sell them on as kennels suitable for small- to medium-sized dogs. The design has been patented, my stopwatch is ticking."

There was another burst of static, then a series of indistinct thumping sounds and a "Hold _still_, Figgins," before it turned off.

Puck looked at Finn with an expression as close to sympathy as Finn had ever seen him get. Finn's face was flushing cold with fear. "I don't – I mean, I've only _spoken_ to her like twice, and one of those times she just tweaked my nipples and made motorbike noises, so –"

The commiserating punch Puck gave Finn's arm was so hard he was still numb below the elbow by the time he reached Coach Sylvester's office.

He knocked. "Coach Sylvester?"

"In my office, Stilts."

Finn edged his way in, slowly. Her reputation did nothing to suggest she was unlikely to be provoked by sudden movements.

Coach Sylvester was sitting forwards at her desk, her hands linked and resting on the cover of a book with a photo of her face on. "I'm going to make this simple for you, Stilts, because I'm aware that's the only way you'll understand it."

"Uh," said Finn, "thanks."

"I like Porcelain. I see something of myself in him. Maybe not the youthful looks, maybe not the instinctive grace, maybe not the natural and frequently useful immunity to poisonous fungi, but there's something Sylvester in him, all the same." And when she leant forwards across the desk towards him, her eyes narrowed and her voice low, her expression was as intent and malevolent as any Finn had ever seen on Kurt. He found his hands had migrated to shield his balls for fear of losing them. "Anyone who upsets Porcelain is upsetting me. Anyone who crosses Porcelain is crossing me. And anyone who tries to get into his obscenely-priced, immaculately-pressed pants is trying to get into _my_ pants. And Sue Sylvester lays down strict rules on the people who try to get into her pants."

He tried to keep the mental image of anyone trying to get into her pants out of his mind but as mental images went it was a remarkably vivid and resilient one. Finn swallowed, hard. "I don't – uh, I don't, like, get it. What you want. Like –" he tried again, "– I don't totally get what you _want_."

"I don't know much about Macauley," said Coach Sylvester, who lived a life untroubled by any kind of duty to acknowledge other people's opinions, "but what I've seen I like. Obvious physical insecurities. A near-bulimic diet fixation. Though my automatic distrust of anyone with a mouth large enough to conceal a small handgun makes it hard for me to admit it, those are qualities I appreciate in a person." She hooked open a desk drawer with her foot. "You are going to keep an eye on Macauley," she told Finn.

"Uh," said Finn.

"And when I say you are going to keep an eye on him," she added, stirring through the contents of the drawer, "I mean you are going to write a short report every fifteen minutes detailing what he's doing, how he's doing it, and whether it seems at all likely to cause discomfort to my head cheerio."

"Discomfort…?" Finn echoed, helplessly. There had been a moment, just a few short seconds ago, when he thought he understood what was happening; but that moment had passed.

"Physical, emotional, or sartorial," Coach Sylvester said. She dropped a small green notepad onto her desk. "On weekdays, you'll report to me here, in my office, three o' clock on the dot. On weekends, you'll tear the relevant pages from your notepad and leave them for me in a newspaper-wrapped parcel in the left-hand dumpster behind the Lima Bean, after which you'll be welcome to go and dope your shaking hands up with another fix of the psychoactive I hear the teenyboppers are calling espresso. You won't miss an appointment. Do you want to know why you won't miss an appointment?"

He gave a hurried nod.

"Because I deal with people who miss appointments in the same way I deal with people who knock on my door shaking cans for charity: I hack the federal systems and add their names into the database of registered sexual offenders. So if you ever want to be allowed within fifty feet of that flat-chested pre-pubescent foghorn you call your girlfriend again, I recommend closing that gaping mouth, latching onto that notebook, and getting the hell out of my office to find Macauley because it's one thirty right now and I want your reports backdated from nine AM this morning."

Finn blinked, then blinked again and closed his mouth. He felt something was expected of him. "So," he said. He tried again. "So Macauley is… that's Sam, right?"

Coach Sylvester looked at him.

"And you wanna know if he… hits Kurt? 'Cos those guys are friends, he wouldn't – I don't think Sam'd hit Kurt."

Coach Sylvester was still looking at him.

"Because they're friends," Finn explained, helpfully.

Coach Sylvester continued to look at him.

"I'm just _say_ing."

"If I was your mother I would be looking into the cost of suing the midwife who birthed you." The notepad hit him in the stomach and he dropped to scrabble it up from the floor. "Three o' clock, Stilts. You won't keep me waiting."

* * *

><p>V.<p>

"I just wanna, you know, I want to _be_ with you. I want to be with you for ever and ever." Rachel shifted in his lap, twisting round to look him in the eyes, her voice earnest and a lot less strident than it had ever been sober. "All the way until you're old and I'm, uh, until people are stopping _me_ in New York. To tell me what an inspiration _I've_ been in _their_ lives," she said. "That long. That's how long I want to be with you."

"That's cool," Finn told her, and she relaxed back onto his chest, "that's cool."

Artie had wheeled out for his bedroom with Tina and a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels almost an hour ago, shouting for his bitches to keep it down, and the room seemed to have got half as loud and twice as untidy since then. There was half a pizza on top of the stereo where Finn had hidden it to save it for later, though now even the thought of fetching it back seemed like an effort; there was a distinct and disconcerting smell of burning plastic coming from the garden through the open French windows. Empty bottles and crumpled plastic cups littered the room.

On a mattress backed up against the far wall, Kurt was leaning on Sam's shoulder and talking quietly, peeling the label from an empty gin miniature. Brittany was sprawled out beside them, asleep in her underwear and Santana's fake fur coat, but neither of them was paying her any attention: Sam was curling his fingers through the soft hair behind Kurt's ear, his attention entirely on him.

"I remember," said Finn, and paused for a moment as he fumbled the memory, linking his fingers with Rachel's, "no, I remember this one time I touched Kurt's hair. Like, it had a bug in it, so I said, oh, I'll get that out, and I touched his hair. Just touched it. For a _sec_ond. And he stopped the car and said I could walk home if I wanted."

"Kurt's really, he's really protective of his hair," she agreed, seriously.

"He must be so wasted."

"He hasn't been drinking."

"Huh." He looked again at Kurt, who had finished peeling the label and was now shredding it, and at Sam, who was watching the shredding like he had never seen anything quite so fascinating before, and he remembered backing hastily out of spin-the-bottle the moment it landed on Puck but before he could work out exactly why that was the first thing Kurt and Sam made him think of Rachel was tugging at the collar of his shirt and demanding he stroke her hair that way too – "Why don't you stroke my hair like that? Don't you wanna – don't you want to touch my hair, don't you like my hair? Finn? Don't you _like_ me, Finn?" – and the matter was forgotten, as he reassured her she was beautiful.

* * *

><p>VI.<p>

"By the time I got home I had already whittled down my initial forty into a more manageable selection of twenty, which I sorted into a variety of categories – romantic duets, of course, then within that the subcategories of wholesome romance, long-distance romance –"

"– unrequited romance –"

"– and black, twisted, _obsessive_ romance – then friendship duets, which I subdivided into best friendship, childhood friendship, and –"

"– frenemyship," they said, at the exact same time, "– but I was able to discount the whole of the friendship category almost immediately because – well, when you can sing about love, you don't want to just sing about friendship, do you?" She laid her hand over Finn's on the table and he looked up, startled from his reverie.

But Kurt was rushing on where Rachel had left off, and Finn realised that he hadn't been meant as a participant in their conversation so much as a useful prop. He tore open another packet of sugar and shook his head at Sam, who was listening to the rapid back-and-forth in good-natured bewilderment.

"I've been considering various options for mine and Sam's duet and I was thinking – one word – Oklahoma."

"'People Will Say We're In Love'?"

"Exactly! Laurey's part is easily within my range and the lyrics are just too uncannily accurate to pass up the chance to perform them." Rachel was nodding along, her mouth pursed in approval. He sang, softly: "_Sweetheart, they're suspecting things_ –"

"Whoa," said Finn, "Kurt. Wait a minute. Is that a good idea?"

"Is it a bad idea?"

"I know you guys are friends but – 'sweetheart'?"

"Speaking from my personal experience as one half of a deeply unpopular romantic pairing, I can assure you that the fallout from a public declaration of affection is never as bad as you might expect," said Rachel, and rearranged the knife and fork on her empty plate so they lay perfectly aligned. "It's not as big a deal as you think."

"Wait," said Finn.

"And Sam's aware that if at any point he feels like getting back together with Santana then he has my blessing," said Kurt. He bumped his shoulder against Sam's. He was smiling a distinctly affectionate smile.

"Wait," said Finn.

"Yeah, but the list of things I'd rather do than get back with Santana starts at, like, being eaten by a bear, so." A great daffy grin was spreading on Sam's face too, and he wasn't doing very well at trying to conceal it.

"Seriously," said Finn, "_wait_."

He was remembering sitting together in lessons, singing together in practice, shared lifts and textbooks and glances he had sometimes intercepted but felt just weren't meant for him; conversations that had seemed a little strange, touches that had seemed a little lingering.

"Guys," said Finn. They were staring at him. "Seriously. _What_ is going on with you two?"

"Nothing," said Sam.

"Nothing at all," said Kurt.

"You did take _both_ your vitamin supplements this morning?" said Rachel.

"You're acting like –" he hesitated, "– no offence, you guys, but you're acting kinda like a couple."

There was silence at their table.

"Kinda e_xac_tly like a couple," Finn stressed.

On the far side of the room, a waitress was shouting orders through the hatch to the kitchen. It sounded suddenly extremely loud.

"Finn," said Rachel, and for the first time since she'd introduced herself to him talking two hundred miles an hour she seemed nearly speechless. "Finn –"

"You told me everybody knew," Sam whispered to Kurt, who was staring at his brother with a fixed and unconvincing smile.

"I thought everybody _did_ know," he whispered back.

"Finn –" The effort Rachel was making to gather her words back together was visible in her face. "It's not exactly like they've been _subtle_ about it."


End file.
